


Still Waters

by triciasama



Series: Drowning [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pants, awkward car rides, swimming in the Thames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triciasama/pseuds/triciasama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another untimely swim in the Thames river, all for a case. DI Greg Lestrade is soaking wet and this has nothing to do with Mycroft’s umbrella (well, maybe a little). He also decided that how he got himself to be sitting in someone else’s car without his trousers on was some dastardly psychological play of the elder Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Waters

**Author's Note:**

> A short drabble written because I wanted Lestrade without his trousers in Mycroft’s car, which somehow morphed into a fic by itself. I apologize for this piece not being beta-read or Brit-picked and would much appreciate constructive criticism. Also, it has been ages since I’ve written anything but I wouldn’t call it an excuse. Thank you for reading!

Well, this was decidedly awkward, he thought.

Gregory Lestrade was in his pants. Shirt and pants, to be precise. And very wet ones. He was sitting on a very expensive suit jacket which was splayed out on equally posh leather car seats in the interior of the car of a ‘minor’ British government official. He was leaning forward as much as possible so as not to soil the seats but not that he would tumble off should the driver hit the brakes a little too hard. His trousers and blazer lay in a sodden pile in a corner.

He breathed a little too loudly, and it came out as a sigh. Mycroft Holmes, who was sitting next to him, divested of his suit jacket and looking dapper and unreadable in his shirt and waistcoat, turned and delivered a quirk of an eyebrow in question.

“Problem, inspector?” Mycroft asked.

“No, no, not at all… it’s just-” Lestrade drew in a lungful of air, which dissolved into a charming, bright grin and a fit of choked laughter. “This is very unexpected.”

\--  
Just barely fifteen minutes ago, the detective inspector was questioning a witness near the River Thames while Sherlock was hovering in the background like a purposeful fly. Dr. John Watson was not too far off, trailing behind and seemingly attempting to disappear into the background. The witness was on his lunch break from the office and he usually went to the nearby sandwich deli by the river, according to his secretary. They had managed to catch him while he was exiting the deli, half-eaten sandwich and a cup of steaming hot tea in his hands.

There was nothing remarkable about the witness, and the interview was going fine, albeit with the witness being a bit annoyed at his precious lunch hour being rudely interrupted. The usual, noncommittal answers – no idea what was happening, saw this bloke running down the street with a woman in pursuit and next thing you know the bloke was dead. Lestrade wasn’t getting much useful information, but he was writing all of it down anyway. 

That was until the witness drew out a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his mouth when the wind snatched it out of his grasp and it went flying.

Sherlock pounced.

“The handkerchief!” Sherlock had yelled, running after it like a madman and making futile grasps at it as the wind took the light fabric further. It took John a couple of seconds to realize what was happening and give chase, and Lestrade a couple more seconds to realize the same thing.

It didn’t compute, really, for Sherlock to run after a handkerchief. But many thing about Sherlock never did compute, so he took off after him anyway.

He had covered about a hundred meters when they had reached the bank of the Thames, and he could hear Sherlock yelling “No, no, no, no!” between shallow breaths as the handkerchief floated out further, threatening to land in the murky waters of the river. Lestrade slowed down as Sherlock reached the railings of the promenade walkway of the river, watching uselessly as the fabric drifted merrily over the water. 

Well, then. That was it, no what-the-hell-was-that-about-handkerchief. Guess Sherlock would have to find another way to deduce what the hell he was about to deduce from the handkerchief and – no!

Sherlock jumped in. 

His mind flooding with thoughts of different ways to wring Sherlock’s neck and many curses for the bloody handkerchief, Lestrade leapt in. Thinking back, he would have just shot him if he could.

He hit the water hard, feeling the strong rush of bubbles and the water bitingly cold even in the middle of summer. Lestrade kicked off his shoes quickly, swimming upwards towards the surface of the murky waters. He gasped when he surfaced, glancing around quickly and saw a bobbing head down the river, the muffled yelling of John Watson in the background which seemed much farther than it should be. He started swimming towards the floating person with strong strokes, gladly realizing that he was swimming parallel to the current rather than against it. John was waving a heavy black coat from further down the bank, running towards the bobbing head that was Sherlock from the promenade.

A few more strokes through the water and Lestrade reached an oddly quiet Sherlock with the handkerchief clutched in his hand as he floated along disturbingly calmly. Sherlock offered little resistance as Lestrade wrapped his arms around his shoulders to haul him back to shore. The consulting detective was just muttering vaguely about the water destroying the evidence, but as if suddenly regaining thought to his surroundings, he broke free and swam the last few meters to shore himself.

John was already there, draping the large black coat that Sherlock had somehow remembered to shed before jumping into the river onto the consulting detective’s back.

“You- you shouldn’t just do things like this without telling us! Look at-” Lestrade heard John stutter angrily at Sherlock as he clambered unsteadily out of the water onto the bank. It was chilly, the cold biting through the sodden fabric and his clothes were sticking to him in places that were very uncomfortable and some that he rather not mention at the moment. At least he didn’t have an arsecrack full of sand. His sock-clad feet though, were otherwise.

Sherlock was just continuing his deduction with his coat around his soaking clothing, as if he hadn’t just crawled out from the river.

“The witness was lying. He said he had no connection whatsoever to the woman or the victim but the handkerchief said otherwise. Crumbs, yes, boring, just off the sandwich he was eating for lunch but the embroidery – the embroidery at the edge of the fine handkerchief. I’m certain that it was not his. Also, the dried blood at the corner of the fabric, which I’m sure all of you had missed-”

John just shrugged his shoulders and turned to Lestrade, who was blinking away water that was dripping down from his hair into his eyes.

“I’m really sorry. I should have gone in after him as well.” John groveled. “Always such a dick.”

“You have to stop apologizing for him, eh?” Lestrade replied, sputtering a little as he wiped his nose with his wet shirt cuff. “I should have just let him drown. Or just float away down the Thames muttering to himself.”

John coughed a laugh. “He bloody well better manage to solve this case soon before he risks drowning us all in the river.”

“Said the bloke who had the sense to stay on dry land. Oh, hullo-” They both looked up in the direction of the road. 

There was a car parked near the bank where he had clambered up, and Lestrade’s heart leapt thinking that it was somehow a squad car with backup of some sort (he hadn’t called any backup, not like he had needed any). A figure was descending the small flight of steps, stopping abruptly at the last step. 

“Mycroft?” John wondered aloud. 

“Ah, doctor. Glad to see that you are all fairly well.” Mycroft nodded as he ambled over purposefully, his umbrella hanging loosely from his hand. He nodded curtly at his brother. “Sherlock.”

“Hullo, Mycroft. Can’t leave me alone, can you? Surely you have more important things to do like start wars before afternoon tea today?” Sherlock did not even bother to look at Mycroft, scrutinizing the handkerchief while glancing pointedly from the corner of his eyes. Mycroft made a disapproving sound. 

“And here I was thinking that I might offer you, and your companions here, a ride.”

“I do not need _a ride_. What I need is to get this piece of evidence looked at properly. St. Bart’s is not too far from here-” Sherlock perked his head up towards the streets, scanning for a moment before jogging away towards the city. “John!” He called out belatedly.

John gave a slightly exasperated look that Lestrade knew to be more of a façade for the little twinkle of promising adventure in the doctor’s eyes.

“Guess I’ll go after him, then. You’ll be alright?” 

John dashed off without waiting for an answer.

Lestrade supposed that he had to find his own way back. He reached for his phone in the pocket of his blazer, the rush of adrenaline draining and he suddenly felt lethargic. He could call Donovan, get a squad car to pick him up because no cabbie in their right mind would want him dripping all over the seats. The moment he held the phone in his grasp he realized that he had jumped into a bloody river with his phone _on_.

Electronics did not take well to water.

He sighed at the blank screen and reached for his wallet. 

His wallet barely squished as he tugged it out from his pocket and he wondered how the phone soaked through when his wallet was still fairly dry. He was rifling through, checking the condition of his Oyster card when he felt rather than saw Mycroft Holmes moving towards him.

“Since my brother does not seem to care for one, shall I offer you a ride, inspector?” 

“I’m soaked through,” Lestrade replied, the protest sounding feeble even to his own ears. “If you could lend me your phone I could just give my sergeant-”

“In case you didn’t hear me clearly, I offered you a ride, not a phone call,” Mycroft replied with a plastic smile, his tone almost patronizing but yet sounding polite and pleasant at the same time.

“I’ll drip all over your car seats.”

“Oh, we’ll find a way around that, I’m sure.”

Persistent man. A sudden but slight gust of wind seemed to pierce through his wet clothes and chill him to his bones. He supposed he would rather get moving somewhere than stand here and probably catch pneumonia or whatever disease that the Thames river carried.

“Alright. Thank you,” he replied, the statement came out a bit more curtly than he meant to. Lestrade followed Mycroft to the indiscreet black town car, which was parked near the pedestrian walkway, engine purring softly.

He was just outside the door of the car when he had a violent sneezing fit. He was now rather confident that he should take the offer for the ride. At this rate, if he waited around any longer he would be leaking an alarming amount of fluid from all his facial cavities.

When he was done sniffling into the cuffs of his wet shirt, he turned to see Mycroft already seated comfortably in the car next to his suit jacket which was neatly splayed out beside him.

“I am not sitting on your suit.” Lestrade realized he sounded slightly nasal. He cleared his throat.

“Most certainly not. Not with those sodden clothing of yours.”

“Then what am I supposed to-” his brow furrowed as realized the implications of Mycroft’s statement. “No, I am not going to-”

“Your trousers only should be fine.” Mycroft interrupted, his tone mild.

“No. Thank you for the offer, but I would much prefer if you could lend me your phone so I could just bloody call someone-”

“Please. You could be back at your residence within minutes, in a decidedly warm and comfortable car and I would be very disappointed should you refuse my generous offer.” Mycroft glanced up at him from his seat in the car. “Also, I won’t – as they say – peek, or stare. You have my word.” Although Mycroft never indicated a hint of amusement, Lestrade swore that the look was definitely tongue-in-cheek. Also, the thought of Mycroft, peeking, or staring for that matter, was quietly hilarious.

Lestrade paused for a beat, staring at Mycroft’s unsmiling but questioning face before shrugging and sliding into the car, slipping off his trousers as smoothly and disinterestedly as he could. He pooled his trousers at his feet and decided that sitting on someone’s suit jacket with only his green pants on was one of the most uncomfortable and embarrassing things he could do. Then again, he was already this far. He shrugged off his blazer as well, tossing it to join the wet trousers as he reached to shut the car door.

“I suppose you’re not the first person to charm my trousers off me.” Lestrade tried to joke. 

“Information I’m not privy to and interested in knowing, inspector. Shall we? Your residence, I presume?”

“Yeah… yes, please.” He didn’t bother asking how he knew his address. Come to think of it, Sherlock had mentioned that his brother liked to play British secret service from time to time. His dealings with Mycroft so far had led him to believe his minor position wasn’t as ‘minor’ as one would presume as well. 

“Frederick, Inspector Lestrade’s residence, please.” He heard Mycroft say to the burly man in the driver’s seat, and felt the car pull away slowly.

This was going to be a long ride.

\--

“Do you track your brother?”

“Hmm?” Mycroft stared straight ahead, a note of disinterest in his curt reply. Lestrade shifted in his seat, deciding to go ahead and ask anyway.

“You, turning up like this. Rather timely, don’t you think?”

“I suppose tracking my brother would be a sensible assumption but no, he refuses to be tracked. He finds every bug and tracking device that my… assistants have been attempting to conceal.”

“You tracked John, then.” The detective inspector persisted.

“Even if I did, seeing the doctor running along the Thames river would hardly be any cause for alarm. Surely I have other concerns.”

Lestrade supposed this was a usual feeling, getting nowhere with the Holmes brothers. He chuckled softly to himself, looking at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. The man was as unreadable as always, sitting rigidly in his seat with his umbrella folded neatly across his lap. He felt cold and sticky in all the wrong places, and almost leant back and ruined the seat before he caught himself in time. He tried to cover up a violent sneeze, reaching blindly for his hanky that was in the blazer lying in a heap on the floor when it suddenly occurred to him.

His phone.

“I fell off the grid.” Lestrade said quietly as he turned to Mycroft. There was a sudden shift somewhere deep inside Lestrade’s stomach as Mycroft actually turned to look at him, the faintest of a quirk of his eyebrows belying his interest. Lestrade took that as a yes. He shook his head in bewilderment.

“Why in the world would you bother-”

“You are very important to me.” Mycroft replied softly. Lestrade felt something caught in his throat as the words somehow sank into a warm spot in his chest. “A very important _asset_ , I might say.” Mycroft added.

Lestrade almost snorted. Asset, of course. Like a _thing_ he could use and send around to be his brother’s little whipping boy. He felt like he should say something, but then again something about being in one’s pants made him hold back his tongue. He had this absurd idea that Mycroft just got anyone who sat in his car with him to take off their trousers, just so he could leave them vulnerable and quiet.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t too far-fetched, knowing the Holmes brothers.

He reached to twirl his wedding band on his finger out of nervous habit, only to remember that he wasn’t wearing his ring anymore.

“We should be reaching your residence soon. I am glad to have been of assistance to the Yard, inspector.”

“Going to go after Sherlock after dropping me off?” Lestrade asked. “I might. For all the bloody messes he causes he still manages to gets the case solved.”

“I rest assured knowing where he is at the moment, no need in wasting any more of my precious time. As you know, I am a very busy man.”

“Thank you. For the ride and… for putting up with me like this. I really appreciate it.” Lestrade said, even though at that moment he felt that he’d rather be squishing as he walked to the tube in wet, socked feet than sitting on a thousand-pound suit jacket without his trousers on. 

The car jerked to an abrupt stop and Lestrade jolted forward from his perch on the seats, almost catching himself in time when he felt a strong grip on his forearm, snaking by his elbow and holding him back.

He turned and felt Mycroft’s other hand reach up to cup his cheek.

Mycroft’s hand felt welcomingly warm placed against the cool skin of his cheek and he found himself unknowingly leaning into the touch. He shifted in the seat, feeling the itch of the fabric against his arse and suddenly being reminded that he was here, in Mycroft’s car, wearing only his shirt and pants and feeling a sudden stir in his heart that rode straight down to his groin.

“My apologies,” Mycroft whispered gravely, not sounding sorry at all. He leaned over, his lips mere inches away from the detective’s. Lestrade could smell leather, cigars and something clean and distinctively Mycroft. 

His breath hitched as he looked up and locked gazes. It was as if it was the first time that he had really seen the man, the warm, brown firmaments that suddenly seemed preciously vulnerable. Eyes that spoke volumes. He could move away at any moment.

He didn’t.

Oh God he didn’t, not when Mycroft smelled wonderful and warm and was moving closer to him. He could feel the ghost of his lips, his breath shallow and quick, skating over his half-parted mouth, teasing and begging at the same time.

He couldn’t _think_.

He kissed him.

Lestrade had no idea who closed that impossibly close distance between them but he didn’t particularly care at that moment. He breathed him in, deepening the soft kiss before pulling apart slightly. They were breathing heavily, leaning forehead against forehead. 

“I think-” Mycroft panted, reaching to push them apart, an angry blush creeping up his cheeks when Lestrade cut him off by reaching behind his neck, pushing them into another kiss.

“Stop thinking.” Lestrade murmured against his lips, fingers digging into the delicate skin at the nape of his neck. He felt like he had released something feral in Mycroft, the way that he was threading his grip through his damp hair, trying to assert himself as always but for once, failing miserably. 

Lestrade kissed back roughly, all teeth and silenced moans, feeling a sense of vicious triumph to be able to reduce Mycroft to a clawing mess. Oh God, the kiss was arousing and Mycroft’s desperate touches were sending heat straight down to his groin. He vaguely remembered he was still only in his pants.

He reluctantly pulled away when he realized the car was slowing down to a stop. They were still breathing heavily as they shifted back to their seats, smoothing ruffled hair and attempting to compose themselves.

Mycroft still had ruddy cheeks when the driver popped open the car door. Lestrade was sure that he still looked like a damp, trouserless mess.

“Sorry sir, construction on the road. Had to make a detour.” Lestrade detected a strong hint of a Wales accent from the burly driver.

“It’s alright. Why don’t you go up and get the inspector suitable attire to make himself decent?” Mycroft waved dismissively. 

Lestrade was already rummaging for his house keys in the pocket of his wet trousers and was ready to hand the bunch to Frederick when he approached his side.  
“Second room on the right on the first floor. Third drawer from the top in my dresser. Just a pair of track bottoms would be good, yea?” He said as he deposited the keys in the driver’s hand, smiling. “Don’t go planting anything in my house while you’re up there.”

“No need to, inspector.” Frederick smiled back, his grin almost feral. Lestrade felt a sense of disquiet from his answer.

Mycroft was already standing outside, lighting up a cigarette. Lestrade remained in the car, fiddling with his peeling nicotine patch on his arm until Frederick passed him the bottoms. 

Mycroft just passed him a short nod as Lestrade walked towards his house, dressed and holding his trousers in one hand. He agreed.

Avoidance was certainly not the best answer, but it was all he could muster at that time.

\--

He felt vaguely human after a hot shower. 

Lestrade ran a towel through his hair as he stepped into the kitchen in a new shirt and trousers, pacing towards the refrigerator in his bare feet to reach for a cold beer when he suddenly recalled that he was heading back to the Yard. He settled for a glass of water from the kitchen sink instead.

He downed the water from the glass in long gulps, trying to wash away the horrible aftertaste of the Thames river at the back of his throat, and tasted Mycroft all over again.

It wasn’t just a playful kiss under the mistletoe or a cheeky drunk peck on the lips. 

And he kissed _back_.

He felt like he had taken a huge blow to his gut. He had never really pined for this man. Then again, he had never really pined for anyone. But now that there was this surreal possibility that Mycroft Holmes was, well, very attracted to him, he found himself irresistibly drawn to him as well. 

He wanted more.

And it scared him. It had been a while since he had felt scared. It was almost like that time he was caught in a gunfight and a bullet had whizzed past his ear, missing him by mere millimeters. Not quite but almost.

“Damn you, Mycroft. Damn you.” He said to the windowpane as he dumped the empty glass a little too strongly into the sink.

He jammed on an old pair of shoes and shrugged on another blazer. No time for this. He had a case to solve and a crazy genius with a wet handkerchief on the loose. He supposed he would have justification for charging said genius for a new phone as well.

Or just bill said genius’ brother for that instead. Just for the remotest possibility of meeting him again. The tight feeling in his gut welled up as he brushed the thoughts away angrily. Surely suggesting anything to do with a relationship was absurd. He was just fresh out of bereaving the ghost of his holy matrimony and broken in places that couldn’t be seen.

The light in the hallway flickered as he walked towards the front door and he stopped, shook his head as he looked up at the bulb in the light fixture.

It wouldn’t last.


End file.
